The Meeting
by Spinereader
Summary: Ego crashes into ego when a young and arrogant Spike meets his match in Vicious.


**Title: **The Meeting

**Author: **Aubrey

**Summary: **Vicious comes upon an arrogant new Syndicate member and decides to have a little fun with him.

**Disclaimer: **Nothing in here is mine, and I'm not making a cent off of it. All the credit goes to the brilliant creator Watanabe and the artist Nanten who gave his story life.

**Background: **I can hear it now; why would Spike keep a name given to him by a man he now loathes from a group he faked his own death to leave? Well, I'd like to think that's a way of reminding himself of his past, of showing the Syndicate that he's not afraid if they come after him. Okay, I confess, I didn't actually think about it, it was simply a plot element I found amusing. But let's just pretend it was character development, shall we? ;) 

He lay against the alleyway wall; the flesh exposed looking like a patchwork of dirt, bruises, and blood. Though several bones were likely broken, he beamed through the pain. A shiny new Israel Jericho lay across his palms, displayed as if it were a precious artefact.

Two years before this, I sat in much the same position, clutching my own Jericho, my prized gift of admission. I'd just become a new member of the Red Dragons, as had this boy apparently.

"How many broken bones," I dryly inquired as a means of introducing myself.

"Six I think; my nose, two fingers, two ribs and my left wrist."

He beamed despite, proud to have survived the brutal final test.

"Impressive," I commented, evoking a confidence I would soon rid him of. "I only came off with a few bruises and a fractured jaw. I believe it was a hairline fracture. Nonetheless, I managed to finish off the trio before they could injure me further. I was eighteen at the time. If you don't mind me inquiring, how old are you?"

He glowered, embarrassed to have met someone apparently superior to himself. He falsely believed I'd fought skilfully, for which I was grateful. In reality, I did nothing, instead allowing my Katana to do the work, waving it about wildly until it met its targets. Thankfully, I was now far more skilled. 

"I'm twenty," he growled resentfully.

"My, aren't we getting a late start," I quipped, baiting the surly young man.

A sickly sweet smile spread across his lips.

"Well, I was too busy bettering myself at Uni for a career in picking fights."

"Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I believe most of the degrees in these institutions are four years long. How odd it is that you should be here only two years later, 'picking fights' like me," I countered. 

The young man clinched his fists, flinching at the sensation this produced.

"I'm doing this at night to pay for tuition!"

This excuse struck me as amazingly far-fetched.

"Couldn't you simply apply for financial aid or work in retail like most other students?"

His façade of superiority began to crack, amusing me to no end.

"My folks make too much- though they refuse to help me out for reasons I won't discuss- and this pays wonderfully."

I cocked an eyebrow, regarding him sceptically. 

"Okay, I quit school last year because I didn't see a point in staying when the Syndicate pays 800,000 woolongs to mere lackeys," he finally confessed. "God knows how much those higher in the ranks make!"

"Apparently you do possess _some_ intellect. Your name?"

"Gilbert Albertson."

I sneered.

"No you are _not _Gilbert Albertson. Gilbert Albertson is a balding middle-aged physicist with dense nose hair follicles. You are Spike Spiegel." 

He gave a lopsided grin.

"That sounds like someone from the porn industry. But I think I like it. So, what do they call you?"

"Initially I was dubbed Daemon Shelley until a certain 'incident' last year. Now I am known as simply as Vicious."

He was so wide-eyed; it was as if I'd told him I was the second coming. I couldn't wait until he lost that nauseating youth and innocence.

"Only one name, I like that."

I sighed with annoyance. "Well don't follow suit."

He nodded, wiping a new trickle of blood from his lip with a greyed sleeve cuff. The sight sickened me.

"Go clean yourself up Spike Spiegel, you look pathetic."

I stepped over his slumped form, making my way towards the door I came from.

"Oh fuck you," he said lightly, attempting, poorly, to stand.

I smirked at him.

"I'm sure you will, most in the Syndicate have."

The last thing I noticed as I stepped inside the doorway was the man's reddening cheeks. It was delightful how simple he was to manipulate.

           The End


End file.
